That Place By Me
by cachstardust
Summary: Free-spirited and brilliant Esme becomes an abused wife—yet from despair, she’s saved by quirks of fate and her own strength. A piece of historical fiction combining unexpected second chances and loving in spite of sorrow. CxE.
1. Beginnings

Title: That Place By Me

Author: cachstardust

Rating: T

Summary: A free-spirited girl becomes an abused wife-- yet from the depths of suicide, she's saved by one love and her own strength. This is the romantic story of loving in spite of sorrow and unexpected second chances. This is the life of Esme Cullen. CxE.

_Preface and Extended Summary_

Dear Reader,

It was only recently that I became fascinated with the character of Esme Cullen. Reading the books, we only see her as the mother of the Cullen family, important primarily because of her acceptance of Bella. She's seems quite tame.

Yet Esme's story is one of the most romantic, not to mention dramatic, background stories of the Twilight series. What must it have been like for an independent young girl to be crushed by an abusive husband? Driven to running away, how far she had fallen to become the mangled body and spirit left with nothing but the wreckage of happiness! Yet Esme is given the rare second chance. From suicide, Carlisle Cullen's love helps Esme fight her way out of despair and fear—thus she's wrought anew. That Esme's ability to love survived so many of life's bitter hurdles attests to her innate beauty.

This story is meant to be her life, and no one lives in a cultural vacuum. One of the best parts of writing an Esme story is having the characters we know in the present and playing with them in the completely different world of a different time. I try to incorporate as much history as feasible in my writing and add flavor with the culture of the time. People mentioned on the side with some facts attached to them are likely actual people I shamelessly use. Footnotes are included at the end of each chapter to share some extra facts I've gleaned.

I hope you enjoy the ride. Please leave a review; any comments are welcome—suggestions corrections, and compliments especially encouraged!

Love, as always,

Carol

P.S.: Anyone who is a fan of Elizabeth Gaskell's "North and South" or Jane Austen or any of those classic romances will see a few references. I just couldn't resist!

* * *

**Chapter 1: Beginnings**

_Prologue_

_July, 1921_

The air seemed to pulsate with energy, swirling with an aroma so heady she couldn't resist breathing in as much as she could. When she tried to open her eyes, it seemed like the light was impossibly brilliant. Lines of flaring white seared painfully.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she could feel her pupils contracting and dilating, and her hand automatically shot up to press down on her eyelids. It was a full minute before she could peel her eyes open slowly.

The light came from a kerosene lamp floating in the darkness, stubbornly shining. She looked away from the eerie vision and saw spots in the shadows.

"Edward, please, turn down the lamp," a mild voice bid the invisible being. Quickly, the glare faded to a warm undulating radiance and floated to a small wooden table. The figure retreated into the dimly lit, wavering reflections of the lamp.

From the darkness stepped an apparition clothed in soft white and washed with the mellow orange glow filling the room, his face illuminated. It was so unexpected, and like in so many of the inconceivable happenings of the world, for a moment her brain didn't consciously make the recognition. That moment seemed an eternity. Her breath vanished and was replaced by sheer incredulity.

"Dr. Cullen?" All the impossibility of the situation was summed up in that whisper.

He gracefully lit on the edge of the bed. The same golden brown eyes scanned hers, just like in the memory she'd kept nearby for years, whose edges were faded and worn but no less vivid. She was afraid to speak, confused if this was her mind's creation or part of the realms of death.

He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. Instead, he lifted his hand and brushed back a lock of her hair heavy with sweat, and with that mesmerizing and gentle voice that had lingered in the recesses of her mind said her name. Only her name, but it was enough. "Esme…"

*~*~*~*~*

_Ohio, U.S.A._

_August, 1910_

From far away, it would have looked like a kite had lodged in the oak tree. Upon closer inspection, one could see the kite was actually Esme Platt, whose long cotton dress was rippling in the wind and who had let her light brown hair dangle in pieces among the leaves. She was lounging in a nook formed by the tree limbs, trying to read a book when she wasn't perusing the stretch of dirt road leading from Milton, and beyond that, Columbus.

Esme was getting impatient. Miss Lumley had insisted on visiting that afternoon, but there was no breath of her. She squinted into the sunlight again, looking past the wheat and barley that was too young for the time of year. The February snowstorms* that had jailed them in their home caused the rivers to gush in April, and by the time their fields had been drained it was already the end of May. Now, they'd be lucky to have a harvest before frost hit.

It was a sad and trying time. Ohio farmers were all suffering from the whims of the heavens, and Esme could see the lines deepen in her father's face, and the tightness of her mum's mouth. Esme sighed.

Putting her book into her calico bag, Esme hooked her hands around the next branch and heaved herself higher into the lofty green canopy. From here, she was above the roof of her home. She nestled herself against the tree trunk and closed her eyes. A strain of melody floated up from her mind. _Come Josephine, in my flying machine going up, she goes*…_What would it be like to fly? Oh, where would she go? New York, perhaps, to see the glittering lights in shops and where the air must've smelt like excitement and energy. Maybe Paris, or Austria-Hungary, or even somewhere far away like China. She would go one day, Esme promised herself…

"Miss Platt!"

Esme's reverie was broken suddenly. She peered through the tree leaves to Miss Lumley on the ground. "You're finally here!"

"Why, yes I am." Miss Lumley's charming face grinned under the brim of a wide straw hat. "And why, may I ask, are you lodged in a tree?"

Slightly abashed, Esme mumbled, "I was reading." She started picking her way down.

"Ah." Miss Lumley, though she should have been admonishing Esme for climbing trees, instead remarked, "I hope you've been reading responsible books? _Fordyce's Sermons*_, maybe?"

"Miss Lumley, Fordyce would turn in his grave at the irony of my unladylike behavior." Esme gave a snort and jumped the last couple of feet to land on the ground with a thud. "Actually, I was reading Gibbon's _History* _that you lent me—brilliant work."

With a smile, Miss Lumley beckoned Esme towards the house across the lawn. They quickly fell into debating the lack of civic virtue in the Roman era. As they reached the white painted porch, Esme broke off and quickly asked, "But Miss Lumley, why did you insist on coming over today? You can't have trekked all the way out from town for no reason."

"You'll know soon." Her light green eyes glittered in merriment at Esme's exasperated groan. Miss Lumley swept her white and blue striped daydress into the house and started undying her straw hat.

From the brilliant sunlight outside, stepping into the house took some adjustment. The rafters and beams were made of solid wood, and although the walls were wired with electricity, most of the recesses were dark and scarcely lit from the scattered light bulbs. Esme much preferred the blinding sunlight and the rush of the wind through the leaves.

Her mum bustled into the vestibule from the kitchen, quickly wiping back the tendrils of hair escaping her hair bun. "Miss Lumley! Please, take a seat in the next room while I get some drinks." She exited in a whiff of fresh bread and sage.

The sitting room was actually the center of the house life. Her little brother had left his wooden toys strewn around haphazardly and poking out from under the spartan chairs; her older sister's hat on the rickety table had some cloth flowers tacked on for the next time she could sew. Miss Lumley chose a seat by the mantle, which had in the place of honor a framed photo of the Platt's marriage. It was the only photo in the house.

Miss Lumley looked up at the photo. "Your parents looked happy," she commented.

Laura and John Platt had worn their best Sunday outfits for their wedding*, not having had much money. Their wedding portrait was an oval with blurred edges. Laura, whose face didn't yet show the ravages of twenty years eking a life out of a farm, sat in a wicker chair looking up at a John who looked like the most content man alive. They'd married in spite of poverty, but in love.

"Yes, they are."

Footsteps echoed in the hall. Laura Platt strode around the corner bearing a tray of iced lemonade and what Esme knew to be the last tin of saltines. She swept away Celeste's straw hat and gently placed the tray on the table and took a seat. "Please, Miss Lumley, help yourself. My husband will join us soon. Esme, pour her some lemonade."

"Thank you," Miss Lumley nodded to Esme offering the lemonade, but didn't take any saltines. "Your house is lovely. The pale peach matches the darker browns so warmly."

Esme's mum beamed. "It was all John's mother. This room was done even we married. Mrs. Platt had a great eye for the colors and patterns." Esme discreetly looked into her lemonade glass in anticipation of a long speech. Her mother could wax profusely about the home she was so proud of. She'd heard it all before.

"Sorry for the delay, ladies," John Platt interrupted, walking in from the kitchen in long strides from being accustomed to doing things practically and swiftly. His face, framed by golden red hair, was slightly red from the sun. As he took a chair next to his wife, Esme caught the rich scent of leather and the open fields of grain. "How do you do, Miss Lumley?"

"Fine, thank you. I spend my time drawing up some lesson plans for next year."

"Oh, good, good," said Mr. Platt, pouring himself lemonade.

"In fact, school is what I'm here to talk to you about. Or rather, Esme's schooling."

Mrs. Platt suddenly looked alarmed. "But I thought Esme was always top of her class!"

"She is," Miss Lumley looked at Esme with a twinkle in her eye. "I've never seen someone so voraciously consume knowledge as if it alone could satiate the blood."

"Well, that's our Esme." Mr. Platt said, exuding pride. Esme's cheeks were starting to color from the praise.

"I grew up in Columbus, and my family has long been friends with Henry Churchill King," Miss Lumley continued. The name didn't register with any of the three Platts. "He's currently the president of Oberlin College. I've written to him describing how Esme has been one of the best students I've ever taught, learning at a level far beyond her age."

Esme was burning up now.

"I've shown Mr. King Esme's grades and examples of her writing. Based on this, Oberlin has written me back showing strong interest in Esme joining their freshman class of 1913."

The Platts were all dumb-founded. Miss Lumley took a sip of lemonade. "Mr. King has hinted at a substantial scholarship for Esme, to help the costs of attending college. But that's all in the future." She waved it away. "In the meantime, to prepare for Oberlin, or a different college, she'll have to get a more comprehensive education than what I can give her in our small Milton schoolroom."

"She'd have to go to Columbus, right?" Mrs. Platt said anxiously.

Miss Lumley nodded. "Yes. There are several boarding schools for women in Columbus; I don't think Esme would want to travel the fifteen miles every day. I've heard many good things about Miss Langton's Academy for Young Ladies. Miss Langton herself replied to my letter saying they'd take on Esme. One of their graduates recently donated a large amount to the institution, money they're devoting to scholarships and the like. Cost would be perhaps forty dollars a year or less to you. It's a significant amount, I know, but Esme would be on the road to a very bright future."  
All three Platts sat in silence at the end of her speech. In the silence, Esme felt like the cogs of her life were suddenly locking together. A boarding school in Columbus! Then college!

Mr. Platt broke the silence. "When does this school in Columbus start?"

"Soon. In mid-September."

Esme's parents looked at each other wide-eyed as time seemed to churn faster. Mrs. Platt said slowly, "Well..." There was an implied doubt.

In that one drawn out word, Esme's breath hitched with horror. Esme's heart tumbled in a flood of anxiety and hope. The path her life could go was ablaze with sudden clarity. Surely there must be a way for her to go!

Mr. Platt cut her off. "Laura, please." He gave her a pacifying look. "Miss Lumley, thank you for coming all the way out here. We weren't expecting this at all. It's a big decision, and we'll want some time before we do any choosing."

"Of course," Miss Lumley said gracefully, setting her lemonade down on the wood table and standing to the sound of rubbing petticoats. The Platts all stood as well. "Tell me of your decision soon. There will be little time as it is to prepare everything."

"You have our word we will," Mrs. Platt said as they walked the short distance to the front door. Esme followed, her steps excited by her exhilaration. "Within a few days." She opened the front door with a creak and the sunlight flooded in as if the light had been leaning against the door the whole time.

Miss Lumley gave a slight nod to the Platts and tied on her hat. She turned to Esme, standing a little back from her parents. "Esme, I have the highest faith in you. I think this is the opportunity of a lifetime; I hope you take it." Esme couldn't agree more.

With a last round of good wishes, the door closed behind Miss Lumley and the restrained atmosphere broke down.

"Forty dollars!" exclaimed her mother, her hair all awry and fluttering her hands. "Absolutely not!"

"But Laura, Esme'll have a real education."

"And oh, being in town! What kind of society would that be? We don't know anything about this Miss Langston!"

"Mother!" Esme broke in. "We've known Miss Lumley for so long. If she says her academy's good, I'm sure it is."

"But you'll be so far away!"

"Fifteen miles! It'll be a morning's wagon ride."

"Who'll take care of you?"

"I'll be fine!"

"I don't want you to go!"

"Father!"

Mr. Platt turned to his wife. "Laura, it won't be so bad. We have cousins in Columbus, and I know Mary and Thomas will be more than enough support."

"John," hissed Mrs. Platt. She was looking at him with shrewd, calculating eyes. "Where will we get forty dollars from? We don't even have enough to buy another tin of saltines!"

"Father, I've got a few dollars stored up," said Esme. "I'll be able to be a teacher after schooling ends."

Mrs. Platt huffed. "Don't go spending all that money!"

John drew himself up. "Esme is fifteen. She can do what she wants with her money." Mrs. Platt opened her mouth to argue, but Mr. Platt cut her off. "She's dead set on going to this school. I'll make it happen. We'll just not be getting the new tractor as soon. And that is that."

In that moment, a grin that shone with the sun she loved broke out on Esme's face. She gave a grateful and exhilarated hug to her father, thanking him. She was going to Columbus! Esme dashed out the back door. Her boots pounded through the grassy yard, her heart thudding, her caramel hair wild, until she was back at her favorite oak tree. Esme reached up, and with the grace of one familiar with the route, loped around the branches and pulled herself up.

It wasn't long before she was standing on the same branch she sat on less than an hour ago. If she had any space left in her mind after the shock, she would've marveled at how quickly things changed. From here, she could see the small figure of Miss Lumley walking to her home in Milton. She longed to scream out "I'm going! I'm going!" but she was too far away.

Instead, Esme, with the sun blazing overhead, surrounded with summer leaves, looked out towards Columbus. Her brown eyes were ablaze, her heart counting down the days. With the wind pulling back her hair in waving tresses and her dress rippling backwards, Esme might as well have been flying.

* * *

_Notes_

1. The February 16-18, 1910 snowstorms of Ohio led to 29.2 inches of snow that month in the Columbus area.  
2. "Come Josephine, In My Flying Machine" was first a hit in 1910. Whimsical lyrics include "Whoa, dear, don't hit the moon!" It was a bigger hit when made into a duet in 1911. We know it better as the song Jack sings to Rose on the prow of the _Titanic_ in April, 1912 ("I'm flying, Jack!")  
3. _Sermons for Young Women_, or _Fordyce's Sermons_, was published in 1766 by Dr. James Fordyce, with the purpose of encouraging ladylike behavior and male supremacy (yuck.)  
4. Esme's reading _The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ by Edward Gibbon, a classic and highly influential book also known as _The History_. Theses include that the Romans' civic virtue declined and they fell into sloth by outsourcing Rome's defense to barbarians or foreigners and the more controversial claim that the rise of Christianity caused Romans to hope for a better heaven rather than bettering their earthly existence.  
5. Until the 1920s-30s, wedding dresses were usually in contemporary styles as compared to now, where designs are based on Victorian gowns. Those who couldn't afford or were too practical to have a new dress for their wedding just wore their best outfits­.


	2. Recalled to Life

Thanks to the people who took the time to read, and to those who reviewed: edward-lover-456, Esme'sFAVORITE, flame of the forrest, Kitty-kat831, Nanda, seattlegrace90, , starrylove, and tragixlove. Your comments encourage me to continue. =)

Love,

Carol

* * *

**Chapter 2: Recalled to Life**

_August, 1910_

Esme's mother refused to let her tell Miss Lumley the good news for two days. "We wouldn't want to seem too eager," she insisted, as she kneaded the dough. Secretly, Esme thought that her mother just didn't want to allow the decision to be made final. But she complied, and walked as fast as she could two days later in the burning August heat towards the double-story house close to Milton where Miss Lumley boarded. Both pairs of eyes glittered with excitement. Each planned an exciting future—the academy would open in little more than two weeks.

When she returned, she found her mother slicing onions. "Oh, back, are you?" she said as Esme walked into the kitchen and tied an apron around her plain dress.

"Yes," she said. Esme took a knife and started skinning the carrots lying on the counter. "I told Miss Lumley."

Mrs. Platt didn't reply but started chopping the onions with more force. Esme continued with the carrots, and moved onto removing the husks from the ears of corn. A heavy silence fell between them.

In the end, it was Mrs. Platt that broke the silence. "And why exactly do you have to go to this school?"

"Because," Esme said as she peeled the silky strands off the corn, "I can think of nothing better than being able to read new books and learning new things."

"Couldn't you read at home? Miss Lumley always brings by new books."

"It's not the same!" Esme exclaimed. "School isn't very challenging anymore."

Mrs. Platt huffed. "You can read and write and do sums. What more do you need?"

"Well, what about literature? The body of written works is massive, the result of centuries of the greatest thinkers. And what about science? In the last century we've leaped into the modern era; look at the smokestacks outside of Columbus. I'd never learn those things in our little Milton school; it's so small, and the world so wide." Esme's impassioned voice took on a tinge of longing. "And going to college would be... a dream."

Esme's words rung in her mother's mind. Laura Platt had always held herself with pride. She'd grown up never knowing anything other than always fighting for the security just a little more money could buy; she'd learned long ago that money saved one from starvation, desperation, and humiliation. Marrying John Platt, who had nothing to his name but a mid-sized tract of farmland and devotion to her, had been the most romantic, and sometimes she joked to John, the stupidest thing she'd ever done. She'd tease her husband that she could've married George V and been Queen of England by then.

But, she'd never regretted her marriage. She wasn't so ungrateful as to see that life could've been much worse than marrying the man she'd been infatuated with since the first time she saw him in a friend's drawing room, the man she'd been in love with since the he rode his horse to her father's house to tell Laura he was going to marry her, rich or poor, parents' blessing or no.

It didn't prevent her from wishing there were more things, though. It was wrong to covet, true, but it'd be nice to have newer furniture, nicer clothes, needed parts for the tractor. Forty dollars was a fortune in her eyes. She'd never needed an "academy" education—college seemed extravagant.

But as she looked at her daughter absentmindedly peeling corn and fantasizing, she felt a pang of regret for so vehemently arguing against her going to school. It hurt Laura to think that Esme would go regardless of what she thought. When did her youngest daughter grow up? With a pang, Laura realized she didn't really understand Esme, headstrong, independent Esme, her daughter who seemed to want nothing more than to fly away into the uncertain world and boldly seek perilous adventure. Esme wanted everything Laura tried so hard to fight.

I can't stop her, thought Laura as she continued slicing onions.

"Esme, if you want to go to this academy so badly... well, I won't stop you."

Setting down her knife, Laura turned and gathered her daughter in a hug, trying to tell Esme all she couldn't put in words—you want to go into the world so desperately. But you'll find that world a hard-scrabble place, and when you do, I'll offer you the home to come back to. That's the most I can do, the most any mother can do.

It might have just been the onions but Esme thought she saw tears in her mother's eyes.

*~*~*~*~*

On those warm summer nights, Esme could hear the crickets chirping in sweet contentment. Usually she could also hear the light breathing of her sister sleeping. But that night, Celeste and Esme Platt sat awake on thin mattresses set together in their attic bedroom.

Although Celeste was little more than a year and a half older than Esme, all through their childhood the younger held the older in the deepest respect. It wasn't until later that Esme realized Celeste represented everything she admired but wasn't. Had Esme longed less to leap out into the world, she would've appreciated the homey comforts of Milton like her sister. Had Esme not been restless, she could've taken long walks through fields of barley or appreciated the still silence of evening. Had she not been impatient, she would've been content knowing what she had she had, and what she didn't have she didn't.

The sisters looked very similar. The same golden brown hair was either wind-swept or swept back and tied neatly. Light brown eyes either glittered with excitement or glowed with contentment. Pale, heart-shaped faces were either freckled and grinning from the sun or quiet and smiling.

The moon cast pools of silver onto the wooden floor and on the bedsheets. Celeste's legs were drawn up against her body. "So what's the very first thing you'll do once you get to Columbus?"

"Visit Uncle Thomas and Aunt Mary, I guess," said Esme. "Mother and Father will expect that."

"Do you think you'll go to parties? Isn't that what they used to do at finishing schools?"

Esme snickered. "I doubt it. It's not like I have any nice dresses to wear, anyways. It's a school, not a finishing school. Thank goodness it's not. I'll spend most of my time studying I think."

"Maybe it'll be like an Ann Radcliffe* novel—Gothic towers and mysterious romances."

"Right," whispered Esme. "When was the last time you saw a Gothic mansion around here?"

Celeste pretended to think. "Well... if you squint at the Milton general store—"

"And why were you squinting at the general store?"

"Oh... uh, no reason."

Esme laughed under her breath. "Were you thinking about one Richard Thor—"

"Shhh!" Celeste smiled.

"He's not too bad," grinned Esme. "You could do much worse than Richard. I bet he looks forward to Sundays more than usual lately!"

"You think so? We still sit in the same different pews."

"Celeste," Esme rolled her eyes at her sister and her incongruity, "he pays more attention to you than the Reverent Kingsley's fascinatingly staticky hair. When Oscar Marville walked by, the hair actually moved to the other side of his head."

"Not everyone is as easily amused as you are."

"No, really. He was definitely looking our direction."

"Well, maybe it was because the reverend was looking at you."

"Oh, bother." Esme shrugged her shoulders. "For all his croaky preaching, I still don't see why women shouldn't get the vote."

"The reverend says to his flock that women can't vote because we're mentally incapable, physically unable, and morally unfit."

"Hah."

"And besides—women might hide extra ballots in their sleeves and stuff the boxes*."

"As if men didn't wear sleeves." Esme snorted. "Never heard that one before."

Celeste shook her head of loose tresses. "You must not have been paying attention last Sunday then."

"Celeste!" exclaimed Esme, laughing. "You completely distracted me. What was I on... oh yeah, teasing you about Richard."

"Gosh, darn."

"Since you're not doing anything about this..." Esme said in a tone implying deviousness, "I have a plan."

"Heaven help us." Celeste rolled her eyes, and waited for the scheme. "Yes?"

"What?"

"What's this plan of yours?"

"You'll find out!"

"Esme, you're impossible. Tell me now!"

"It's a surprise—we can't ruin it now, can we?" Esme whispered, grinning in the darkness and congratulating herself on her perfect plot. Celeste would never have summoned the courage to talk to Richard Thornton, but all the two needed was the slight nudge from the ever-gutsy Esme.

A silence fell, colored with the cricket calls and a lone owl. Their merriment slowly subsided into a comfortable sense of togetherness from spending years and years of nights in their attic above the rest of the house. When they were young, the sisters clandestinely fantasized the attic was really a kingdom full of magic where the chair was the mountain lair of the witch queen, the walkway between their beds the chasm of doom. Celeste played the princess trapped stop the chair under a bedsheet of snow, and Esme saved her from evil as the Knight Valiant.

After awhile, quietly, Celeste ventured, "What will I do without you here?"

"Fall asleep faster."

"Esme! Really. It'll feel so empty up here."

Esme heard the tinge of sadness in her voice, and got up to sit in the pool of moonlight bathing Celeste. In that moment, Celeste, awash in silver light that changed the dust particles into glitter, could've been a real fairy princess with her ethereal beauty. "Celeste, I won't be far. It's only Columbus. You'll visit often. We can write even more often."

"I'll miss you—so much."

Esme hugged her sister. "I'll miss you too. You won't ever be too far from mind."

She smiled a small smile. "How sweet of you." Her smile turned into a grin. "But before you leave, you have to tell me your plan!"

"Never!" laughed Esme, ducking Celeste's pillow throw. Such were the happy last nights of the Platt sisters.

*~*~*~*~*

_July 1921_

She couldn't remember how long the agony lasted.

Every cell in her body ripped itself apart struggling vainly against the invading poison. Those nearest her veins crystallized first, each one a tearing stab, each one added together a universe of raw pain. It was slow, exquisite torture. She was encased in suffocating torment with no way out and no end. Her ears couldn't hear if she screamed. She smelled nothing. What she saw she didn't recognize. Every sense was consumed completely. This must be death, but she was being eaten alive.

Her self, that part of her that made her Esme and no one else, was drowned by fire. The self is slave to pain, and while under its thumb, everything is pared down to not the feeling of pain, but pain itself. How could one think when the very flames of hell were burning through the body in everlasting torture? And what humanity is possible without the mind? She had wanted to forget, but she was left with nothing but agony; she had forgotten, but at the same time forgotten who she was. It was fitting that what changed a human to something altogether inhuman forced the self, the soul, whatever determines who one is at heart, to be ripped from the corporeal world and to hang in a precarious balance.

And who was there for Esme but Carlisle? The lamp had never strayed from the bedside table and the flame glowed persistently, shining in the night and through the day as the heavens tried to drown Ashland in torrents of angry rain. Through the torturous minutes that she fought the hellish demons, he kept vigil at her bedside. He held her hand as she writhed in torment. His heart, that superfluous and silent organ, echoed with her cries until his entire body rung with the pain he inflicted.

The endless hours were spent fighting himself about his decision. Sometimes he was filled with anticipation that she could again be the girl whose smile was as wide as her heart. Sometimes he was torn with anguish over forcing his own existence on someone who so obviously had chosen to die. And underneath it all, Carlisle was afraid to admit to himself he feared her waking up and hating him for what she would soon be.

Through the whole ordeal, he spoke to her. He told her of his work in the hospital as he checked her clammy skin. He told her of Edward, how he was a student in the nearby high school. Never did he speak of the life she'd wake up to. While wiping her forehead of sweat, he never asked any questions about the last ten years of her life.

He didn't mention that it'd been a decade but still he had thought of her occasionally through the years, a complete stranger who in his mind had remained forever sixteen. She'd said his name in a moment of sanity, but he'd hardly dared to believe it was anything more than her drawing on a memory buried deep in the piles of events that happened since. Esme Platt wove through his life, he realized, as a wraith of his memory that had somehow come back to him.

And he kept on talking. He spoke in a low murmur, telling her stories he'd never told anyone else. This complete stranger, this girl turned woman.

He didn't know she was listening. Not consciously, but she knew that voice, the timbre and feel of it.

There was a moment at the peak of pain where Esme's soul could have easily chosen to simply give up. It had already once before, and unlike other vampires, whose innermost selves still thirsted for each drop of life during transformation, her soul had entered the turning already quit of all mortal ties. Yet in that world of pain, right at the moment she would've given up, the sound of Carlisle's words cut through to her very core. She didn't hear him; no, instead it was something altogether divine. His voice carried within it the promise of something different from the suffering she'd lived, and it drew her back from the cliff over the chasm of nothingness and back to existence.

After two days, Esme opened her eyes to Carlisle's face lined with worry. At the sight of her scarlet red eyes, his features melted into relief, and the lines were washed away. A smile spread across his mouth, familiar light returned to his eyes, and after two nights of breathless worry, all was made right again.

Esme would try in later years to remember what the transformation process was like and understand why, but she could only remember the excruciating pain. However, she didn't need to _understand_, she simply _knew_ it. For all of eternity, Esme would know with unshakable certainty that there was no sound in the world as beautiful as Carlisle's voice, for his was the voice that had recalled her to life.

* * *

_Notes_

1. Ann Radcliffe was an 18th century English novelist who is regarded as one of the founders of Gothic romance. Her books include _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ and _The Romance of the Forest_, novels that inspired comedic retellings like Austen's _Northanger Abbey _and dark heroes like Charlotte Brontë's Mr. Rochester.  
2. In our modern conviction of women's suffrage, few think of the anti-suffragists, in particular, women anti-suffragists. These women believed in separate spheres of influence, political and domestic, for the genders like the men anti-suffragists. However, to lambast these women for not supporting their own rights is to disregard that they firmly believed the status quo worked well, a viewpoint not inherently wrong. I find it fascinating that these women, often upper-middle-class, would volunteer and run charities and education while declining the vote. It seems hard to reconcile. This is an example of how ingrained some ideas are in our culture that I could never doubt the right of a woman to vote or a black man his freedom, and also how history is like a foreign country—they do it differently there.


	3. The Lion's Den

Dear Reader,

First, I'm so sorry if you got a bunch of "chapter update" emails earlier this week… I was doing some editing!

If you're impatient to start reading, feel free to skip this absurdly long note. But if you want to know what's been going on since I last updated:

I started this chapter in July… on vacation in Toronto. Later, I had a Breaking Dawn release party. I flew to Seattle to see Stephenie Meyer "in concert" with a friend. In late August, I went to college, Vanderbilt, located on a beautiful national arboretum campus in Nashville, Tennessee, where I saw the Twilight movie. I've since finished my first semester have returned to Chicago for break.

Thanks to Angeliss, BabelFish42, cullenist1918, dsolo, edene, Flame, Juliejuliejulie, Madame Meg, Mary Alice Brandon Cullen, Mistflyer1102, NeverHadDreams, , rain is my refuge, ryolatwentytwo, Spack272, starrylove, stressylemon, tragixlove, Utopian, , xkidscanflyx, and xxtwilight for reviewing.

Seeing an email update and reading all of your thoughts always lights up my day. It's flattering, I think, to get long reviews with both criticisms and compliments because it shows your readers think you worth the effort of a thoughtful comment. I hope I may return the favor. Please do yell at me for messing something up, like everyone who told me I put "Pratt" instead of "Platt"—I've fixed that (that's why you were getting "update" emails…) Special thanks to those who've got my back.

Yours,

Carol

_Recap: Esme was about to leave for her school in downtown Columbus, Ohio…

* * *

_

**Chapter 3: The Lion's Den**

_September 5th, 1910_

"Robbie!" hissed Mrs. Platt, "Hurry up and get out here! Make yourself useful, Celeste—move that trunk onto the back."

"But I'm still eating breakfast!" called Robbie as Celeste tried to yank the trunk handle.

Mrs. Platt's glared through the open front door. "I told you not to eat another roll. Now hurry up."

"I can't find the last ball of twine!"

"Freddie, it's in the kitchen."

"Hold this down while I get it, Pa."

"I can't lift this!" Celeste groaned. "What's in here?"

"That would be her books. Have fun!" Robbie grinned, walking out with a steamer trunk in tow. Ten years old, Robbie's cheeky enthusiasm at the crack of dawn brought a glare to Celeste's eyes. "Who knew she had so many—oi!" as Freddie came rushing back and tripped over him, "Watch it!"

"Got the twine!" Freddie tossed it to his father standing on top the cart, and turned around to pick up Robbie's trunk and set it next to the seat. He grinned and hooked his little brother under his arm by the neck. "And gotcha, you rascal. No more cheek outta you."

Robbie wrestled out of the hold and his freckly face scrunched up in a scowl. "I'm gonna eat your toast. G'bye," and he dashed back into the house.

"Get back here!" Freddie hissed, racing back.

Mrs. Platt sighed. She leaned down and grabbed one end of the trunk of books to heave it onto the rickety cart. Ol' Bessie, their ancient mule, yawned in the misty blue haze of morning.

Celeste climbed up and sat with her legs dangling over the edge. From inside the house, she heard furniture squealing against wooden floors. A second later, Freddie emerged triumphant and munching on toast, exaggeratedly content. From his side, Robbie, hair more tousled than before, slunk out to the cart and dejectedly plopped himself onto the back next to Celeste.

With some more huffing and a few more yanks by Mr. Platt on the ropes, everything was set.

"Sho..." said Freddie with a mouth full of toast, "Where's Eshme?"

*~*~*~*~*

Esme had stayed up the night before alone with her thoughts and the summer crickets. All day her nerves had crackled with suppressed energy and she felt like time was twice as fast. But that night the shadows seemed to have affixed themselves in permanent positions on the worn, wooden planks. Minutes were interminable. Thoughts and fantasies crashed into each other like exploding fireworks. Unformed visions of that time next week, or even that time next night, dazzled her mind. Since she didn't know exactly what to expect, she was free for the moment to live in the delicious realm of fanciful hope.

All night she had tossed in gleeful anticipation to leave, but now, with someone calling her from the front of the house, she couldn't make her feet rip out of the muddy early morning fields. She looked out onto the expanse behind her home. It was all she had ever known, and she probably knew every bit of it by heart, but still Esme let her eyes linger on each thing. The shed's roof was coming undone, and someone had left a shovel out overnight. Mother was not going to like that. Parallel dents in the dirt led to the field. She tried to memorize the way the eastern field sloped downwards towards the rising sun. As she watched, the light crept over the tips of unharvested wheat until in the distance, it looked like the fields were painted in glowing gold.

Having drunk in that scene, Esme slowly walked back through the dewy grass towards her favorite oak tree. It reigned silently over the land, and Esme thought of all the times she had been in its leafy arms perched against the clouds.

Esme looked up. In the dim sky, the boughs stretched silently into peaceful heavens. Suddenly, she had an urge to have one last moment in her favorite spot where a few thick branches formed a nook. She reached up to grab the familiar first handhold—

"Esme!" called Celeste. "Where are you?"

She pulled her hand back. With a regretful quirk of her lips, Esme turned away. "I'm coming, Celeste." She took a breath and strode forward from the tree and fields to the cart.

Freddie jumped into the front of the cart and Mrs. Platt stepped forward with a tied-up cloth. "This'll be lunch for you both." She handed it to her. "Don't do anything stupid. Keep your clothing in good order, and wash at least once every couple of days."

"Yes, Mother." Esme rolled her eyes. "I won't forget." Her mother had never been one for sentimentality.

Mr. Platt hugged Esme. "We wouldn't want you to smell badly, now would we? But don't forget to study." He hugged her again, and this time she came away with a small purse. Conspiratorially, he whispered, "Just in case, right?"

"Thanks." Esme smiled, and tucked it in her dress pocket. She turned to Celeste. "Don't do anything stupid, right?" she said pointedly.

It was lucky for Celeste that it was still mostly dark, or else it would have been obvious the girl was beet red. Esme had concocted a "devious plot" (quoth Celeste) to prod Richard Thornton into action. For some reason, at their church's annual harvest luncheon, Richard had asked Celeste to share a picnic basket with him. Celeste had pretended to be squinting at the sun so she could glare at Esme with murderous daggers, but took Mr. Thornton's arm with her usual sweet smile. It was the subject of many knowing glances among the congregation—to Celeste's acute embarrassment—but Esme always reminded her, "Well, you two _are_ a thing now, aren't you?"

"Don't you dare bring that up." Celeste's eyes narrowed, then softened. "I'll miss you while you're away." She hugged Esme tightly, then pulled back to look into Esme's face with a small smile.

Esme looked back at her innocently. "Keep me informed." She grinned as Celeste scoffed and let go.

Robbie bounced to her side. "Will you bring me back presents from Columbus?"

"'Course I will. A new model train, is that good?"

He grinned in glee. "Yeah!" Then he tugged her dress so she leaned down, and whispered in her ear, "Make sure to eat all of Robbie's food, alright?"

Esme raised herself up, eyebrows raised. "We'll see..." she said, and shook her head. She strode towards Freddie at the front of the cart and pulled herself up. She turned around and called, "Bye, everyone! I'll write you all soon!" Freddie patted Ol' Bessie who started slowly pulling the cart down the dirt road towards Columbus. Esme waved at everyone waving back, at the retreating house, and the waving grain stalks in the background.

For awhile they rode on in silence. The road gradually grew brighter from sleepy morning light to bright sunshine. Freddie swiped his forehead with a handkerchief as the air warmed up, and Esme untied the cloth. The apples, cheese, and corn bread quickly disappeared.

"You could have saved some for later, you know."

Freddie smiled cheekily. "Now where would be the fun in that?"

*~*~*~*~*

Downtown Columbus at mid-morning was an admirable example of orderly chaos. Automobiles had come into vogue* and everyone, it seemed, from the old families to the _nouveau riche_ to the new middle class tooted their horns down the streets, literally and metaphorically. The shiny boxes on wheels shared the space with horses and buggies that invariably stopped exactly when automobile drivers wanted to move. Pedestrians ventured into the street at their own peril. It was a Monday and shopkeepers were bustling about wrapping up meat and selling vegetables. Kitchen maids and wives scrutinized produce only to declare the price akin to robbery, got better deals, then jealously handed over coins but left secretly satisfied. Young boys on street corners cried out the morning headlines to peddle newspapers off passing gentlemen.

Towards the centre of the city, the roads got less dusty and more paved. Respectable shops laid finely-crafted wares out for the more discerning citizens of Columbus. Several establishments were bookshops brimming with the latest scientific manuals and novels while others were purveyors of creamy stationery paper and fountain pens. Milliners, dressmakers, and tailors made bespoken clothes for the rich—but the truly rich still had their garments from London or Paris.

Miss Langton's Academy stood near these shops. It occupied a building, Esme soon learnt, that was much like its current mistress. Esme's eyes roamed over the architecture as Freddie drove through the open wrought-iron gates. It was firmly in the Gothic Revival* tradition of mid-century Europe; the first floor featured a graceful arcade and long vertical windows swept the eye up three floors to an ornately sculpted cornice, making the building look like a case with an exquisitely carved cover. Simple but immaculately groomed verdure in the small courtyard complemented the building. The academy exuded strength, dignity, and impeccable taste against the hustle and bustle of fashionable Elliston Avenue.

The wooden wheels of the cart clicked to a stop against the brick-paved circle drive. Esme leapt lightly off the front seat, brushed some traveler's dust off her best dress, and strode forward to the front door. She pulled the cord hanging by the door, an oak and glass marvel sparkling in the sun.

After a minute of torturous waiting, the door swung open to a rather short, round woman with the sanguine features of doting grandmothers. "Mrs. Porter, housekeeper here. Miss Platt, is it?" she cheerily asked. Not waiting for an answer, she beckoned Esme in. The inside was more luxurious than any Esme had ever seen. She stood gazing at the grand, circular vestibule in awe. Black and white checkered marble floors in the Dutch style supported a staircase with gleaming banisters starting with scrolled ends that rose to a landing, then parted to either side. An electric chandelier hung proudly in the centre of the room lit in the bright, clean natural light pouring in from a glass oculus dome.

"Excuse me, ma'am." Esme was startled by the voice of a young boy behind her. She jumped aside to let him and another fellow through. They were carrying trunks and boxes she recognized as hers, and were followed by Freddie.

He gave a shrug. "Appeared out of nowhere and started taking things. Feels kind of odd." Neither had ever been waited on by servants before—their mother would've thought it an intolerable luxury.

"Come on, you two," Mrs. Porter called, "I'll show you to Miss Platt's room."

They followed her up the grand staircase to a third floor corridor lined with old photos. Esme fell behind to peer at the sepia-colored portraits hanging neatly on the papered walls. In each one, about forty young women posed primly and confidently on the same staircase Esme had walked up. The photographs dated from 1877, and as Esme slowly moved down the corridor, it seemed to her that the women's fashions were the only thing that changed over time. The gowns became slimmer, the shades lighter, the hairstyles varied, but the students' expressions were all the same. In none of the photos did anyone smile*.

"Oy Esme!" called Freddie. "Come look at your _room_!"

His voice broke her fascinated reverie. In the second to last room, she found Freddie spinning gleefully in front of a massive bedstead like a little boy. Mrs. Porter stood by the door, amused, and directed the errand boys where to place Esme's things.

It was a very large room, even larger than the attic she and Celeste shared. Freddie plopped himself into a small white sofa that was so dainty it shouldn't have withstood his assaults. The rest of the furnishings, a low table, a carved chair and writing desk, and a few scattered chests of drawers, were in rich shades of carnelian*. The dark red was offset by pale wallpaper dotted with small flowers. The luxury of it was surreal.

"Miss Crawford sends her apologies for not greeting you properly." said Mrs. Porter as she shooed the errand boys out. "She's been in a meeting with one of our patronesses the entire morning."

"Oh, that's fine," Esme waved it away. "I'm sure I'll meet the headmistress soon anyway."

"You'll see her at dinner. But for now, you're free. You and… your brother?" Mrs. Porter continued to Esme's nod, "Might want to walk about Columbus, see some sights or buy some items."

"That sounds nice, Mrs. Porter, but I've still to unpack and—"

"Don't be silly, Miss," Mrs. Porter said, "I'll send a maid up and all your things will be stowed away nicely by the time you come back. Now go enjoy yourselves, and not another word out of you!" She turned around and bustled out the room.

Esme turned to Freddie, who had ensconced himself on the sofa. "Come on, let's go walk about Elliston."

"But it's so comfortable!"

She grabbed his arm. "Get up, you lazy bugger!"

The two of them had enormous fun buying absolutely nothing on Elliston. It was amusing enough guessing how many dollars was the ludicrous hat with a stuffed pigeon perched on the side or what ridiculous man would buy the shiny gold pocketwatches dangling in the midday sun that could tell the time in eight cities. How could anyone want, much less need, all these absurd fripperies?

All too soon, the church bells chimed three o'clock, and Freddie groaned, "Pa'll have my hide if I don't get back before supper."

Esme sighed but they walked back up the street to Miss Langton's. The cart and Ol' Bessie had been taken to the back, and the two started walking around the house to fetch it. "Sir!" called a young boy looking up from brushing a chestnut mare, "Can I help ya, sir?"

"I'm just claiming my horse and carriage," said Freddie, amused.

"I'll bring it around, then. You and the lady just wait in the front," he swiveled around and started trotting towards the back. "It'll just be a minute!"

"Sure you're not going to get spoiled?" grinned Freddie as he and Esme started for the front of the building. "These lot seem eager to not let you do anything."

She rolled her eyes. "I'll be fine. It's just… a different feeling, that's all. Being waited on when we've been doing laundry and washing pots at home ever since we could walk." She could hear the clacking of the cart's wooden wheels approaching. "Don't you go telling Mother—I won't get soft here, I'm sure."

"Whatever you say, Miss Platt," teased Freddie as he took the reins from the stable boy. He gave her a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and with a hollered goodbye, was off towards home. Freddie's departure was like him—not the least bit melancholy.

Upstairs she found that, as Mrs. Porter had assured her, all her items had been unpacked. The bed was made in crisp lines, her few clothes were neatly folded or hung, and—Esme peered closer at the shelf—her books were all in a perfectly straight line on a dustless shelf. Alphabetized, too. She hesitated to touch them as if she were but a guest with all the proprieties involved. Everything she owned had been placed coldly and efficiently like in a hotel room and an unsettled feeling struck Esme; this was her room, but it didn't feel that way at all. It felt forbiddingly perfect.

Esme heard a shriek of laughter through the wall. It shook her out of dark thoughts. Intrigued, she followed the sound out into the hallway, where it emanated from the door next to hers. She paused a moment in front of that last door in the corridor but knocked anyways.

"Come in," a girl's voice commanded.

She opened the door and peered in. The room was easily twice the size of hers and even more lavishly furnished. Ten or so girls sat in the corner beneath a bay window overlooking the street to form a court around one, a haughtily beautiful creature with calculating but expressive dark blue eyes.

"You must be the new serving maid," the imperious girl said from her windowsill cushion, "Lay out my dinner outfit and—"

"I'm no servant; I'm a new student here." Esme was disconcerted—did she really look like a servant?

"Oh…" The girl would've made a splendid comedic actress—she knew just how to make clear her feigned innocence. "I would never have guessed from that _dress_." One of her ladies-in-waiting burst out in a laugh and a few others looked on the verge of doing so. All of them were wearing the latest fashion: stylishly corseted within an inch of their lives, it seemed, and garbed in narrowly cut patterned silks garnished with lace and ribbons. It put Esme's plain grey dress to shame.

But she wasn't shamed. Esme was no fool, either. These girls were obviously not interested in making her welcome. They were probably but a coterie of sycophants to their queen seeking only to emulate her worst qualities. The girl's acerbic comment stung—Esme's pride wasn't used to blatant and petty attacks—but she'd try to salvage _some_ dignity. She walked towards them and addressed the girl basking in admiring looks. "Esme Platt, pleased to meet you."

She slowly stood up and glided towards Esme. For a moment, the two stared at each other in a war for dominance with neither willing to concede. Finally, the girl smiled, and without breaking her unblinking appraisal of Esme, proclaimed "Ah, the _charity_ student." Her angelic complexion and dancing eyes seemed grossly wasted on such an acidic being. "Miss Marguerite Winchester, but," she added in a stage whisper as they shook hands, "My friends call me Marie."

Esme flashed a smile. "Thank you. I shall call you Marguerite."

The girl nodded, still acting cordial as ever. Esme kept her eyes on Marguerite's large, seemingly innocuous eyes hiding a direct challenge—a show of weakness on her part would've been that girl's triumph. Marguerite smiled even more broadly. At once she acknowledged her prey's spirit and also plotted its fall. She took pleasure not in the eventual demise of her rival—no other outcome was possible—but in playing the game.

This round, it was a draw. With a murmured "Enchantée," Marguerite returned to her window seat to be surrounded again by her court.

Esme exited, acutely aware of forcing even and measured steps and not slamming the door. She only let her breath out when the door clicked safely shut. In the relative darkness of the corridor, the breathing she'd forced to stay even started to race.

At that moment, Esme only knew the Academy would be no easy existence. She knew that, unlike those giggling idiots, she didn't need the foolish baubles on Elliston, nor would she suffer bowing to arrogant ringleaders. Esme was herself and could be nothing less. In hindsight, the sphere where memories become tinged with symbolism and meaning, that day spoke candidly of what Miss Langton's Academy was: an altogether different world only tangential to her familiar life on a simple Milton farm. The Europeans she would meet in her travels during the Great War liked to comment wistfully on the ability of Americans to transcend birth and rank—what must it be like, unfettered by medieval social snobbery and to rise solely on one's own talents and abilities? Gloriously free, they imagined.

And yet, she, who had been raised from a normal existence to one gilded in marble and expensive furnishings, was in a den of lions.

* * *

_Notes_  
1. _Automobiles_: A shout-out to the poor American car industry… For most of the late 19th century, cars were just interesting playthings for the rich. No one person invented the car—the modern car was the product of an eclectic mix of innovation. The most famous early car, the Ford Model T, or Tin Lizzie, became popular around 1909. It cost about $850 then (about $20,000 now) making it affordable to the middle class.  
2. _Gothic Revival_: In Europe, the Gothic Revival, spanning about 1740-1860, can be represented by Westminster Palace in London. As the name implies, the era recalled late medieval graceful flying buttresses and intricate decorative sculpture like the Cathédral Notre-Dame de Paris. In the U.S., a quaint form called Carpenter Gothic was in vogue in the late 19th century that combined native abundances of timber with architectural elements reminiscent of European Gothic such as gables (the triangle formed by a sloping roof) and vertical-favoring lines.  
3. _"In none of the photos did anyone smile"_: People weren't more serious back then—the exposure time necessary to develop photos required the subjects to stay still for several minutes. It was simply easier to maintain a pleasantly blank face. If you see old pictures of big crowds, you'll probably see a few blurs because people moved.  
4. _Carnelian_: A color much like burgundy. I would've used the latter, but the internet said "burgundy" wasn't used to describe a color until 1915—who knew?

I'm sorry there wasn't a 1921 Carlisle section in this chapter and so to make amends, Chapter 4 will be entirely 1921. You may expect that one by Wednesday, 7 January 2009. Until then, I hope your holidays have been merry, and a happy new year to all. And don't forget—please review!


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